Chapter 17: The High Rise Devil's Punishment

  The High Rise Devil’s shadow loomed over Haelgar like a dark cloud, suffocating the remnants of life in the city. His brutal, unchecked rampage through the ruins was a force so primal that it shook the very foundation of the city's history. As survivors cowered in their makeshift shelters and the streets ran red with blood, they spoke in hushed tones of the monstrous figure who had become their worst nightmare.

  He was no longer a mere symbol of vengeance. The High Rise Devil had transcended the realm of the living, becoming something far darker, an entity whose very existence seemed to defy the natural order. His merciless fury had turned the crumbling city into his personal hunting ground. Like a predator stalking its prey, he hunted down those who had escaped the massacre, one by one, ensuring that they would never feel safe again. His presence was felt in every corner of the ruins, a haunting reminder of the consequences of defying him.

  The Hunt

  The High Rise Devil's every movement was calculated, yet it was the unpredictability of his actions that made him so terrifying. He was methodical in his cruelty, allowing his victims to know that they were being watched, their every step tracked by his piercing gaze. And once he chose a victim, there was no escape.

  A group of five criminals huddled in an abandoned building, their laughter filling the cold, empty space. They had just finished recounting their most recent escape from the Black Angel, a woman they believed to be the greatest threat in Haelgar, and their voices were filled with a false sense of bravado. They mocked the chaos, thinking that they were untouchable, that their survival meant they were destined to live through it all. Little did they know, their fate was already sealed.

  The High Rise Devil crouched in the shadows, his eyes glowing like twin rubies in the dark. He watched them for hours, studying their every move, observing their arrogance, their ignorance of the true horror that lurked in the ruins. His talons, sharp as razors, flexed and twitched with anticipation. He knew the exact moment to strike, the perfect moment to crush their false sense of security.

  And then, like a thunderclap in the night, the storm broke.

  Without a sound, the High Rise Devil emerged from the darkness, his figure towering and fearsome. The first man to die never even saw him coming. The High Rise Devil’s talons were like knives, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The criminal’s throat was ripped open in one swift motion, blood splattering the walls as he collapsed to the floor, choking on his own lifeblood.

  Screams erupted in the room as the remaining criminals scrambled to arm themselves, but their efforts were futile. They were nothing more than lambs waiting to be slaughtered. The High Rise Devil was everywhere at once, a blur of motion and death. His claws tore through flesh like paper, his strikes relentless and unforgiving. He left no room for mercy, no room for escape. Each blow was delivered with a brutal efficiency that spoke to the depths of his rage.

  Cannibalizing the Criminals

  The room was suffocating in its silence, but for the heavy, panicked breath of the thug pinned beneath the High Rise Devil. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts, his pulse hammering in his temples as he stared up at the looming figure, eyes wide with terror. The air was thick with fear, suffocating in its intensity. The High Rise Devil's crimson gaze locked onto the thug, and for a moment, it seemed as though the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them in this brutal standoff.

  "Please, please don't—" The thug’s voice trembled, cracking under the weight of his desperation.

  But his pleas fell on deaf ears. The High Rise Devil's growl was low and guttural, like something ancient, a warning of impending doom. His mouth opened, revealing razor-sharp teeth, dripping with anticipation. It wasn’t hunger that drove him; no, it was something far darker—a primal urge that surged through him, as if he were returning to some feral, forgotten instinct.

  With a swift, almost casual motion, he sank his teeth into the thug's shoulder, his jaws clamping down with ferocity. The man screamed, the sound high-pitched and desperate, but the High Rise Devil didn’t stop. His teeth tore through flesh and muscle, and the sickening squelch of bone snapping under his pressure filled the room. Blood pooled around them, soaking into the floor like an offering, a tribute to the unholy ritual unfolding before the other criminals.

  The man’s cries only made the High Rise Devil more relentless. His talons, dripping with blood, dug into the thug’s chest as his mouth pulled away, tearing open the tender flesh of his shoulder. The thug’s body trembled with shock, but he could feel his strength fading as his lifeblood was drained, his consciousness slowly slipping away with every savage bite. The High Rise Devil wasn’t simply punishing him; he was consuming him—stripping away his humanity in the most visceral of ways.

  “Please…” The thug’s voice was barely a whisper now, but it was drowned by the sound of the High Rise Devil’s savage, primal feeding. The other criminals could only watch in horror, frozen in place, as their comrade was devoured alive, his body reduced to nothing more than a feast for the predator before them. The High Rise Devil was not a man; he was a force of nature, a monster that consumed with neither reason nor remorse.

  There was no mercy here. No redemption. The thug’s humanity had been taken from him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but blood and a broken shell.

  Skinning and Amputation

  The next victim, a wiry man with sunken eyes, scrambled across the floor, desperate to escape the nightmare unfolding. He wasn’t fast enough. The High Rise Devil's talons shot out, latching onto the man's wrist with an inhuman grip, yanking him back with terrifying force. The man’s breath hitched in his chest as he tried to claw his way out, his mind racing in frantic desperation.

  “No! No, please! I didn’t—” His words were cut short by the High Rise Devil’s otherworldly strength as he was pulled back to the center of the room.

  The High Rise Devil loomed over him, his eyes glowing with cold, calculating fury. Without a word, he began to slice through the man’s clothing, his claws slashing through fabric as though it were paper. There was no hesitation, no mercy, only the methodical stripping away of his victim’s dignity and flesh. The first slice was deep, and the man’s scream filled the air, sharp and horrified.

  One by one, layers of flesh were torn away, the High Rise Devil’s talons cutting through skin with surgical precision. The man’s screams became guttural as his body was laid bare, blood spilling across the floor like a crimson river. The High Rise Devil’s expression never wavered; his eyes locked onto the man, eyes that saw him not as a person, but as prey.

  And it didn’t stop there. With a swift flick of his wrist, the High Rise Devil severed the man’s arm just below the elbow. The sickening sound of bone splitting reverberated through the room as the arm fell to the floor, lifeless and bloody. The man’s voice was a high, shrill wail of agony as he clutched at the stub where his limb had once been, the pain overwhelming, his body wracked with spasms.

  The High Rise Devil’s voice rumbled through the room, low and mocking. “Amputate the sickness,” he hissed, as though savoring the cruel pleasure of the moment.

  The remaining criminals cowered, their hearts pounding in their chests, their eyes locked onto the gruesome spectacle unfolding before them. There was no escape, no chance for mercy. The High Rise Devil was their reckoning, and his judgment was brutal and unyielding.

  Breaking Bones

  The third victim was a young man, no older than nineteen, his eyes wide with terror as he pleaded for his life. His voice cracked with desperation as he begged, “Please! I didn’t want to be part of this! They forced me into it!” His words tumbled out in a flood of panic, but the High Rise Devil didn’t listen. There was no compassion here.

  With one fluid motion, the High Rise Devil seized the boy by the arm, his grip like iron. He twisted the limb with horrifying force, the sound of breaking bone filling the room with an almost sickening finality. The boy screamed, the shrill cry of someone caught in an agony they couldn’t comprehend. The bone snapped, jutting out of his skin like a grotesque protrusion, and the boy collapsed, his arm hanging limply at his side.

  The High Rise Devil’s gaze remained cold and unfeeling as he raised his claws again. One by one, he broke the boy’s limbs with a brutal, methodical precision. Each crack of bone was a reminder of the choices that had led him here, to this moment of excruciating pain. The boy screamed, his body writhing in agony as the High Rise Devil reduced him to nothing but a broken shell of a man.

  Mutilation and Death

  The final two criminals were trembling, their faces pale and slack with fear. They had witnessed everything—every scream, every agonized plea, and now they stood at the mercy of the High Rise Devil, knowing that mercy was not something they would receive. They clung to each other, hoping for a miracle, hoping for something to save them from the horrific fate that awaited them.

  “Please, please, we’ll leave! We’ll never come back! Just let us go!” one of them begged, his voice shaking with desperation. But the High Rise Devil was unmoved.

  His eyes locked onto theirs, cold and unfeeling, and slowly, deliberately, he raised his talons. The room fell silent save for the sound of the sickening, wet slices as the High Rise Devil began his grisly work. With slow, deliberate precision, he began to carve into their bodies, cutting away ears, noses, and fingers with unflinching expertise. The criminals screamed, their terror palpable, but the High Rise Devil remained unmoved, his expression a mask of relentless cruelty.

  It wasn’t just their bodies he was dismantling. No, he was dismantling their very identities, their very sense of self. Each cut, each slice, each mutilation was a reminder that there was no escape from the wrath of the High Rise Devil.

  The High Rise Devil’s Psychological Torture

  But the true cruelty of the High Rise Devil wasn’t just in the way he tore into the flesh of his victims—it was in the way he methodically shattered their minds, piece by piece. While their bodies writhed in agony, their minds spiraled deeper into despair, overwhelmed by the overwhelming realization that their own sins were not only unforgiven but being served back to them in the most twisted way possible.

  He didn’t just kill their bodies. He took their lives apart from the inside out. He understood that breaking the body wasn’t enough—it was their spirits he sought to crush. The High Rise Devil knew that true punishment was not just physical. It was psychological. It was the slow unraveling of their every perception, their every memory.

  For the High Rise Devil, emotional torture was as brutal as any physical wound. He didn’t just make them witness each other’s suffering—he made them feel it, deep in their hearts. Every scream of pain, every twist of agony, was a reminder of their own monstrosity. They weren’t just criminals anymore. They were animals—reduced to their most primal form, forced to face the disgusting depths of their own depravity.

  The High Rise Devil knew what made them tick. He knew what made them vulnerable, what strings to pull to unravel their composure. The first game he played was with their minds—he made them live in fear of what they couldn’t see. When they thought they were safe, he would make his presence known in the most subtle ways, forcing them to question reality itself. He began with their families, their loved ones—the people they had once held dear.

  In the dark hours of the night, when the criminals thought they were finally alone in the solitude of their thoughts, the High Rise Devil struck. He started small, with whispers, sounds in the corners of their rooms that didn’t belong. It was the sound of footsteps when no one was there, the faintest rustle in the shadows that seemed too close, too intentional to ignore. But the worst of it was when he began to take things—little things, things that didn’t seem significant at first, but soon turned into a horrifying game of cat and mouse.

  He would steal a photo of a loved one—just a small one, hidden away in a drawer. The criminal would return to find it gone, only to find a subtle note left in its place: “You’re next.” Then a favorite piece of clothing would disappear—nothing large, nothing that couldn’t be brushed off as a mistake or a coincidence. And yet the feeling began to settle in, like a sickness crawling under the skin. How was it happening? What was he doing to them?

  The High Rise Devil didn’t just manipulate their environments—he manipulated their perceptions of reality. His influence bled into their homes, their sanctuaries. They would return to their apartments, only to find doors left ajar, drawers that were supposed to be locked wide open. The lights flickering when they weren’t supposed to, shadows cast in corners that weren’t there before. There was always something missing, something off. But he never left enough evidence to truly be seen, to be caught.

  As the criminals walked the streets of Haelgar, they began to hear sounds that should not have been there. The echo of their own voices, distorted, mocking them. Whispers in the wind—thin, hollow voices that sounded like their own family members or friends, but twisted into something unrecognizable. The High Rise Devil had become an omnipresent specter, haunting every moment of their lives. They could never escape him.

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  But his manipulations didn’t stop there. No. He wasn’t content with mere isolation. He wanted to strip away every layer of comfort they had, every illusion of control they clung to. He manipulated their relationships—twisting the ties they had with their loved ones into something unrecognizable. He played mind games with their families, their friends, seeding doubt in their hearts. He made them question every word spoken, every action taken. It was the slow burn of insanity—the feeling that the world around them was collapsing, turning on them, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

  He would twist their closest confidants into enemies, forcing them to turn on each other, causing their alliances to crack and break under the pressure. Friends who once shared drinks together became strangers, suspicious and distant. Family members became shells of their former selves, their minds clouded with doubts. The High Rise Devil didn’t need to physically harm them—his cruelty was far more insidious. He made them fear each other, made them fear themselves.

  There were times when the criminals would return home to find their things scattered, shattered. Their most precious belongings—kept hidden away for years—would be destroyed, left in pieces on the floor. Photographs of happier times torn apart, heirlooms shattered, memories reduced to fragments. It was the High Rise Devil’s signature—a reminder that no part of their past was safe. No corner of their world was untouched.

  And still, it wasn’t enough.

  The High Rise Devil would then begin to manipulate their surroundings in ways that made them question their own memories. Objects would shift places when they weren’t looking. A chair moved just an inch, a rug lifted and replaced. Over time, the criminals couldn’t tell whether they were going mad or whether someone was truly playing with their minds. That was the point: the uncertainty. The agony of not knowing if they were hallucinating, if they were losing themselves.

  And just when they thought they had finally figured out what was happening—when they thought they understood the terror they were experiencing—the High Rise Devil would reveal his true, chilling face. It was no longer just whispers, shadows, and stolen items. The devastation became real. One by one, he stole their families, their loved ones—the very people who they had once thought were beyond his reach. He made them witness the deaths of their closest friends, family, and allies—friends who had once stood by them, who had never expected to fall victim to the High Rise Devil's machinations.

  He had them watch helplessly as their loved ones were taken from them, one by one, in the most horrific of ways. Friends, family members, loved ones—he tore them apart with a savage vengeance, watching as they begged for mercy. But mercy was a concept the High Rise Devil had long since forgotten. He wanted them to watch as everything they had known—their homes, their bonds—were ripped apart.

  It was a slow process, a methodical execution. There was no bloodshed at first. Just small things—the absence of a loved one, a missing family member. At first, they thought they had just miscalculated, that their family members were off doing errands or at a friend's house. But when the High Rise Devil began to take more—taking their family, their friends, their homes—he began to play with their emotions in ways they couldn’t escape.

  They could hear their loved ones’ screams from a distance, but they were powerless to act. It was too late. The High Rise Devil had stolen their humanity, and in its place, he had left them with nothing but an endless void. Their sins, their actions, had come back to haunt them, and they were trapped in their own nightmare, with no way to escape.

  As the criminals were finally broken, their spirits crushed and their minds fractured, the High Rise Devil loomed over them. His work was complete. His vengeance had been served—not just on their bodies, but on their very souls. And as they lay there, broken and bruised, they would know that the High Rise Devil was not just a man. He was an embodiment of punishment, a reflection of their own sins, and there would be no escaping his justice.

  The Hanging Ritual

  For some, death was the release they longed for, a swift and final end to their suffering. But for the High Rise Devil, death was not always enough. He reveled in the finality of his victims' demise, but he found an even darker pleasure in what came afterward—the ritual that would leave a lasting mark on the world, a symbol of his vengeance for all to see.

  The High Rise Devil had perfected the art of suspension, not for any practical reason, but as a twisted spectacle of his power. He would take his victims, broken and battered, their bodies mangled and limp, and raise them into the air like grotesque marionettes. They were left hanging, suspended in midair, their blood slowly draining from their wounds, their faces contorted in terror and pain as their bodies swung lifelessly.

  It was not enough for him to simply end their lives. He wanted to make sure that their suffering continued, even after death. Some were hanged by their throats, their necks snapping violently in a swift and final execution. For them, the ritual was quick, a sudden loss of consciousness as the breath was choked from their bodies. But even in death, they became nothing more than a message—a message for anyone who might dare challenge him.

  Others, however, would not be so fortunate. The High Rise Devil enjoyed prolonging their torment, stretching it out for as long as possible. He would choose his victims carefully, taking his time to ensure they felt every moment of their impending demise. His talons, sharp and precise, would carve into their skin, exposing the muscle, bone, and organs beneath, as they begged and pleaded for mercy. But mercy was not something the High Rise Devil could afford. Mercy was weakness, and he was the embodiment of relentless, unforgiving judgment.

  And then came the ritual that struck fear into even the most hardened criminals—the gruesome and utterly horrifying punishment of being hanged by their own intestines. It was a terrifying fate that few ever lived to witness, and fewer still survived to speak of. The High Rise Devil, in his dark genius, would cut deep into the abdomen of his victim, pulling their intestines from within their body with a cruel and unyielding force. The victim would scream in agony, their body convulsing as the vital organs were torn free, exposed to the harsh air as the life within them began to fade.

  But the most horrifying part of the ritual was yet to come. With the victim's intestines now in his grasp, the High Rise Devil would twist and knot them together, crafting a cruel and grotesque noose, tying it with ruthless precision around their neck. The victim’s body, still alive but barely able to cling to consciousness, would then be hoisted up, their own organs used to suspend them in the air. The noose of their intestines would stretch, tighten, and constrict, putting immense pressure on their fragile, weakened body. The victim would choke, gasping for air, as they were left hanging by the very organs that had once kept them alive.

  The pain was unbearable. The internal bleeding, the ripping of muscle and flesh, the sensation of being strung up like a hunted animal—all of it was designed to break them in every way imaginable. It was a slow, agonizing process. For some, death would come swiftly, the body finally succumbing to the strain. But for others, it would take hours before they finally passed into the afterlife, the agonizing pain of their own insides strangling the life from them. The High Rise Devil would watch with cold, detached eyes, savoring every moment of their suffering, a twisted gleam of satisfaction in his gaze.

  This gruesome display was not merely a punishment—it was a spectacle, a warning for anyone who dared to cross him. The bodies left hanging were not just victims of his wrath; they were trophies, horrifying reminders that there was no mercy for those who fell into his grasp. Their lifeless eyes would stare down at the city they had once roamed, their bodies a stark contrast to the once-vibrant, chaotic streets they had inhabited. Now, those streets were silent, haunted by the remnants of those who had dared to defy the High Rise Devil.

  But it wasn’t just the sight of the bodies that sent a chill down the spine of anyone who might witness it. It was the knowledge that the High Rise Devil’s judgment was never random. Each hanging, each display of death, was a message. He was not a mindless monster—he was a predator, carefully selecting his prey, his victims chosen for the sins they had committed.

  And for those who had been his prey, the punishment was always personal. He took great care in making sure they understood the consequences of their actions, making sure they were aware that this was the price of their wrongdoings. The ritual wasn’t just about inflicting pain—it was about forcing his victims to confront the horror of what they had become, to see their lives reduced to nothing more than a broken, twisted display of what could happen to anyone who stepped out of line.

  For the High Rise Devil, the act of hanging was not a mere method of execution. It was a final act of control, an assertion of his dominance over the city that had once been filled with chaos and lawlessness. The High Rise Devil was the judge, the jury, and the executioner all rolled into one. There would be no trial, no appeal, no chance of mercy. He alone decided who lived and who died. And if you crossed him, there was no escape.

  His reputation would live on long after his victims had rotted away, their bodies swaying gently in the wind, a chilling reminder to all who walked the streets of Haelgar. It was said that anyone who ventured too close to the High Rise Devil’s domain would be able to hear the faint creaking of the bodies swinging in the wind, the echoes of their suffering carried on the breeze. It became a sound that haunted the survivors of Haelgar, a sound that would never leave their minds.

  The High Rise Devil’s judgment was absolute, and he was always watching. No matter how powerful, how untouchable one might feel, there would always be a reckoning. And for those who made the mistake of thinking they could escape his reach, the hanging ritual would serve as a cruel reminder that no one was safe from his vengeance.

  The Aftermath

  When the High Rise Devil finished, he left the bodies as they were—broken, mutilated, and displayed for all to see. The survivors of Haelgar, already living in fear, avoided these grisly scenes, but word of his punishments spread quickly.

  The criminals who remained in the city lived in terror, knowing that they could be next. Even those who had once prided themselves on their ruthlessness were shaken to their core. The High Rise Devil wasn’t just hunting them; he was erasing them, one horrifying act at a time.

  For the innocent, his actions were met with mixed feelings. Some saw him as a necessary force, a brutal answer to the chaos that had consumed their world. Others feared him, knowing that his brand of justice was indiscriminate and merciless.

  But the High Rise Devil didn’t care what they thought. His mission was clear: to purge Haelgar of its corruption and exact retribution for the horrors he had endured. He would continue

  his crusade, unrelenting, until every last shred of criminality in Haelgar had been wiped from existence.

  As the High Rise Devil stood amidst the carnage, his crimson eyes still burning with an almost supernatural intensity, the city itself seemed to recoil at the devastation he had wrought. The buildings that had once stood as symbols of power and wealth now served as the backdrop to his brutal display of vengeance. They were hollowed shells, silent witnesses to the horrors unfolding within their walls. The very air of Haelgar hung thick with fear, a palpable tension that clung to every street and alley, every corner where shadows danced with malevolent intent.

  The bodies he left behind were not merely casualties; they were messages. Each mutilation, each broken limb and gouged-out eye, was part of a larger statement—one that reverberated through the streets and reached the ears of anyone brave enough to listen. The city, once a hotbed of crime, had become a hunting ground for the High Rise Devil, a domain where the guilty were made to face the consequences of their sins in the most horrific ways imaginable.

  But as the survivors wandered through the aftermath of his rage, some whispered of hope. Hope that this terror, as vile and blood-soaked as it was, might offer some semblance of justice for those who had suffered under the iron rule of the criminal underworld. There were those among the oppressed who saw the High Rise Devil as their savior, a shadowed figure who could restore order in the face of chaos. They believed that his bloodthirsty purges were the only way to cleanse their city, to rid it of the filth that had tainted every corner.

  Yet for others, his actions were a nightmare in itself. The innocent who had no hand in the corruption of Haelgar feared the wrath of the High Rise Devil with every passing moment. They feared that his unyielding pursuit of vengeance would turn on anyone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were rumors that he had spared no one—no man, woman, or child—if they were in his way, if they happened to stand between him and his target.

  The survivors began to speak in hushed tones, recounting stories of entire families being obliterated for offenses they didn’t commit, for simple acts of survival in a city that had long since lost its sense of morality. What had once been a sanctuary for the powerful had turned into a hell for all who had dared to stay. The High Rise Devil had become a symbol of retribution, but also one of fear and uncertainty, as there was no guarantee of safety when the shadows in Haelgar seemed to pulse with an unspoken violence.

  The criminals, on the other hand, faced a more immediate and visceral terror. Those who had once ruled the underworld with an iron grip were now reduced to broken shells of their former selves, scattered throughout the city in a state of panic. They had thought themselves untouchable, that their power would shield them from any reckoning. But the High Rise Devil’s hunt shattered that illusion, and now they were as much prey as they had ever been predators.

  No longer could they trust in the protection of their alliances, the strength of their numbers, or the intimidation of their weapons. The High Rise Devil was an unpredictable force—he didn’t care about the rules, the structure, or the agreements that had once held Haelgar together. He operated outside the boundaries of reason and law. His vengeance was pure, and it did not discriminate between the powerful and the powerless, the guilty and the innocent.

  As whispers of his brutality spread, the criminals began to turn on one another, paranoia taking root in the hearts of those who had once been confident in their ability to control the city. The once-solid alliances between gang leaders began to fracture, trust evaporating as quickly as blood spilled on the streets. No one was safe. Not from each other, and certainly not from the High Rise Devil, who stalked the city with a relentless, unforgiving hunger.

  The fear in Haelgar had reached a fever pitch. It wasn’t just the criminals who were afraid anymore—everyone was. Rumors circulated of entire neighborhoods being abandoned, families fleeing in the dead of night, desperate to escape the wrath that seemed to hang over the city like a dark cloud. Some tried to leave the city entirely, but there were few places safe enough to hide. The High Rise Devil’s reach was long, and his hunt was unceasing.

  As for the authorities—those who had once governed the city and allowed its corruption to fester—they were nowhere to be found. They had long since abandoned any pretense of control. The High Rise Devil had become the true ruler of Haelgar, his justice delivered not by the hands of law, but by his own twisted sense of vengeance. The city was now his kingdom of death, and there was no law but his own.

  Despite all this, there were some who stood defiant in the face of the High Rise Devil’s terror. A small resistance, made up of those who had lost everything to the criminal underworld and who still held on to a flicker of hope, began to form. They were driven by the belief that, even in the face of such overwhelming violence, there was a need to fight back, to somehow restore a sense of balance to the broken city. They weren’t sure what their endgame was—perhaps it was to take down the High Rise Devil, or perhaps it was to simply survive long enough to see Haelgar reborn.

  But in the darkness of Haelgar, where the shadows stretched long and the echoes of death whispered on the wind, the resistance was small and outmatched. They knew the odds were against them. They knew that the High Rise Devil was a force of nature, a reckoning that would not be denied. But still, they fought on, each act of defiance a desperate cry against the tide of violence that threatened to consume everything in its path.

  The High Rise Devil, however, was relentless. His wrath had no end, his thirst for vengeance unquenchable. As the bodies piled up and the blood continued to stain the streets of Haelgar, he showed no signs of slowing. His fury was an unstoppable force that burned with the fire of a thousand suns, consuming everything in its path. And the city, once a hub of power and wealth, had become nothing more than a graveyard—a place where the High Rise Devil’s punishment reigned supreme.